


give me things that i've wanted to know (tell me things that you've done)

by simplysweetperfection (tinydemons)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 06:36:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3519077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinydemons/pseuds/simplysweetperfection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dante Wallace dies with his hands tied behind his back and a bullet in his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	give me things that i've wanted to know (tell me things that you've done)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thewoundupbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewoundupbird/gifts).



> Title comes from [Drop the Game](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vopR3ys8Kw) by Flume & Chet Faker. Unbeta'd, as always. I'm on [tumblr](http://catcarmilla.tumblr.com) if you want to yell about Clexa with me.
> 
> This is entirely Victoria's fault. I didn't ask for this goddammit.

 

 

This is not a fairytale.

 

 

Dante Wallace dies with his hands tied behind his back and a bullet in his head.

The round veers to the left and shatters through Dante's temple in a mess of minced meat and blood. His eyes are upturned in surprise, mouth gaping open, and his shock is immortalized in stone with his death. Bits of brain are smeared at his collar when he finally slumps over concrete and releases one last drawn out groan.

Clarke puts a bullet in his head and doesn't look at the puddle of red growing underneath the man. She listens to the radio instead, his son repeating Dante's name desperately, voice distorted by static and echoing in the small room.

Monroe did the same, Clarke thinks, begging Clarke to save her as they ripped the marrow from her bones.

Bellamy blinks.

She didn't say that aloud, did she?

Clarke presses the receiver to the radio. Looks at bits of Dante spattered on her shoe.

"Remember you did this," she says softly before crushing the walkie under her heel.

Dante Wallace dies that night along with forty-eight Sky People. Their deaths were not nearly as painless.

 

 

Hundreds walked up to the mountain. Only four walk back down.

Clarke imagines she is still up there with the rest of them.

 

 

Monty chokes down a sob when they pass into the burnt out remains of their camp. The bodies of the grounders are still sprawled around the dropship, bones crunching under their heels when they enter the steel cage that used to be their safe haven.

There is a stain on the ground near the ladder, the memory of a girl who couldn't move and bled alone. Clarke looks away.

"We need to rest," Bellamy says, filling the silence. Dried blood is flaking at his temple and he still has the guard uniform on, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his vest splattered with red. His hand keeps twitching, the itch for a gun between his fingers scratching under his skin. The tick of revenge aching in his teeth.

Clarke knows the feeling all too well.

"I'll take first watch," Clarke says. It is the first words she has spoken since she put a round in the President's head. Bellamy nods while Octavia looks hesitant. Monty doesn't seem to be aware of anything really as he settles on an old mattress in the corner.

Octavia pushes herself from the crate where she had perched herself, saying, "I'll join you."

Clarke wishes she could say Octavia's distrust of her hurts but that would certainly be a lie. She doesn't really feel anything anymore; hasn't since Cage first started the drill.

Clarke nods.

 

 

"Yo gonplei ste odon," Clarke murmurs to the warriors in ashes some time later, ignoring the glare Octavia gives her. Clarke sighs.

She wishes she could have said the same to her people before their bones were ripped out. She could have laid them down and sang while she slipped a knife through the ring of cartilage in their throats and ended their suffering like she did before, so very long ago.

It would take ten seconds until they faint if she were to cut the carotid artery, two or more minutes until brain death. It would be messy and bloody, but it would be _quick_ , which is all Clarke could have asked for.

"I'll be back," she chokes. Octavia doesn't look up at Clarke, simply waving the other away with a hand as she fiddles with the blunt end of her sword. Clarke can see the tremble in Octavia's fingers when she finally turns away.

It's hard to remember Lexa didn't take from just Clarke.

She walks over the bones of the men she has killed, listening as they crunch under her foot. Her stomach churns.

 _Yo gonplei ste odon_ , Clarke had said, but was it really a fight? She lined them up, lambs to the slaughtered and smiled in relief as their flesh melted. Lexa would have told her what she did was right, what she did justified their fight in the war even if she was the enemy. Lexa would have said Clarke was smart to let her emotions burn with the rest of Lexa's warriors. Lexa would have whispered a prayer for the dead in her native tongue and let the deaths roll off her back. Lexa would have, Lexa would have, Lexa would have -

Clarke vomits behind a tree and listens to the screams of her people, round and round in her head. Lexa would have told her that the loss of a battle does not concede a war but then Lexa let the Mountain Men slaughter her people.

Jus drein jus daun _._ Lexa's warriors break under her heels.

Clarke laughs. It is only fitting.

 

 

The graves are all sewn in a line, unmarked and unscathed by the destruction. She can only remember seven of their names now as she passes over them. Connor, Roma, Derek, Glenn, John, Trina. Wells. Clarke thinks they might have been the lucky ones.

Her fingers are smudged with dirt and ash when she leans down in front of Wells. A whine builds in her throat and she claws the ground. He was just a _kid._ A stupid, senselessly brave kid who would play chess with her and pretend to be upset after he let her win. He was slaughtered like a goddamn animal, like everyone else. Her oldest friend bleeding out afraid and alone.

She has killed _so many_.

Clarke presses fists to her eyes, smearing ash and dirt on her skin, and she remembers Monroe screaming for her.

Clarke's mouth closes around a sob. So many brave young kids dead by her hand. If only she could have been faster, stronger. She should have demanded Wells stay in the ship, should have grabbed Lexa and dragged her into the mountain herself, should have told her mother that she loved her at least once more when Tondc was in ruin around them.

Should have, should have, but Clarke didn't.

Clarke doesn't know how to live with that.

 

 

One hundred became forty-seven, and forty-seven became four. Clarke wishes they had all burned up in the atmosphere rather than poison themselves with the ground.

 

 

This is how it ended:

Raven was the first to die.

It was a horrible bloody thing, her screams harmonized with the static of the walkie and the whirl of the drill. She begged with Cage as the bit tore through her bones, groveled for some scrap of mercy, screamed a prayer to an apathetic god.

She died without an answer.

Wick was next, then Jasper, Kane, her mother, Miller - Cage lined them up one by one and ripped open their bones.

This is how her people ended. Clarke could only listen through desperate pleas and put a round in Dante Wallace's head.

Forty-eight people died in that mountain. Clarke doesn't know at what point she did too.

 

 

"We need to get back," Bellamy says quietly when the light is beginning to die out. "The grounders could attack Camp Jaha at any minute."

Clarke stares at a burnt out ribcage and shakes her head. "They won't."

"You don't know - "

"Yes, I do," Clarke says, her reply steady. She finally looks up to Bellamy, her face silent and stoic. "L - the Commander doesn't care for senseless violence. She'll take her armies and march back to Polis."

"And how do you know that?" Bellamy asks.

Clarke's hands shake when she pushes herself up from where Wells lies. She doesn't look at Bellamy, turning to the woods instead and rubs a bit of ash between her fingers.

"Because it's what I would do."

 

 

 _You were born for this_ , Lexa said. Clarke imagines the thought growing in her mind, rotting away who she once was and filling the empty space. _Same as me_. Maybe she would have wanted that before, when the promise of tomorrow hung heavy between them, but not now. Never now.

Clarke shakes her head. "I'd never," she says, Lexa's betrayal biting between her shoulder blades. "I'm not like you."

She doesn't notice the other three stares, worried.

 

 

Clarke tucks herself away in the corners of the Ark when people ask for her.

She lets the sharp of metal cut at her back, the screams of all those dead kids echoing in the small spaces. Clarke turns her fathers watch on her wrist, rubbing her skin raw and hides until Bellamy finds her, pulling her from the crawlspaces with promises of anonymity and silence by what is left of her people.

Clarke wants to be able to give back, wishes for it desperately. She wants to comfort the Arkers with steady hands, help sew them back together stitch by stitch when the ground tears at their skin. Clarke wants to be able to look into the faces of the parents whose kids she has killed without their cries ringing in her ears, wants to walk the camp without her chest cracking under the weight of everyone's sorrow.

Clarke _wants_.

But she does not take, not when Lexa already took so much. She hides away in her pockets of silence and waits.

 

 

This is not a fairytale.

Clarke can't carve the dead from her head.

 

 

Sometimes when Clarke tries sleep the image of Lexa curls up behind her. She is soft and gentle when she presses her hands to Clarke's hips, turning her slowly until their noses brush in the dark. "You are just like me," Lexa says, her lips brushing Clarke's in a thousand tiny kisses.

"I don't want to be," Clarke whispers back. Her hand finds the smooth curve of Lexa's neck and she squeezes.

Lexa does not struggle, smiles instead. "Your wants do not change what you already are, Clarke."

Clarke breathes shaky and digs her nails into the soft flesh of Lexa's throat. She wonders if there was any merit to the grounders reincarnation theory. She wonders if she was built from the stars to lead, as Lexa believes. She wonders where all those dead kids are now. Clarke shakes her head and Lexa kisses the jut of her chin. Clarke's hold wavers. "Did you even want me? Or was that just a lie too?"

"Of course I did," Lexa says. The confession lies heavy on Clarke's ribs.

She tears at Lexa's skin until her fingers are red.

 

 

No one can meet Clarke's eyes anymore.

Clarke can't blame them.

 

 

Clarke spends most of her time out in the woods when she can, away from the sharp angles of the Ark and the prying eyes that flit away when she challenges them. These days she much prefers the unflinching sounds of nature than the artificial noises of a society struggling under the weight of its own tragedy.

She brings Monty sometimes, when he skips breakfast and works through lunch. They collect nuts and berries in comfortable silence, bringing them back in stuffed pockets and pouches, hiding their spoils away in their tents. It's good for them, getting away from the empty memories the Ark provides.

And Clarke likes seeing Monty smile, even if it's only for a few hours when the wilderness calls them.

It's the least she can do.

 

 

Clarke has a dream.

Lexa takes her hand carefully, leads her to the side of the river where the water pulses gently. She takes Clarke's hair between her fingers, twisting, and pulls it into braids. The sun is warm on her skin and Lexa looks beautiful, paint smeared around her eyes.

"Jus drein jus daun," she says softly and colors Clarke's forehead with blood.

Clarke lets it run down her face and does not fight when Lexa pinches her chin, pressing their lips together.

"In another life," Clarke whispers back when Lexa pulls away. She smiles and lets Lexa tug her into the river.

Jus drein jus daun. She lets Lexa drown her.

 

 

She tries to draw one time, tries to pull the screams from her head and put them on paper instead so that she might collect them carefully. She would trace the lines of charcoal and remember the screaming of Clarke's name before feeding it to the fire.

She gives up after three ruined sheets. Her hands shake far too terribly.

 

 

This is not a fairytale.

Clarke couldn't save anyone.

 

 

"Did Lexa make you?" Octavia asks quietly. She sinks next to Clarke, the metal of the Ark warm against their backs, and offers a cup of moonshine. Clarke accepts it with trembling hands. "The missile," she clarifies when Clarke tilts her head curiously. "Did she force you not to tell anyone?"

Clarke drops her gaze, swallowing a mouthful of Monty's concoction with a grimace. "No," she admits after a moment.

Octavia nods.

The grass outside the fence of Camp Jaha is still flattened from the unforgiving march of the grounder army that once occupied the space. It is the only physical sign of Lexa's presence that Clarke still has. She wishes she wouldn't spend so much time staring at it, letting the cries of her friends run through her head.

Octavia drains the last of her drink and drops the cup to the ground, dirt gather at the rim. Her hair is still twisted in braids and she still has a blade strapped to her back but her face is clean, the grounder paint scrubbed away. Octavia gives an old sigh and blinks at Clarke slowly.

She looks as tired as Clarke feels.

"I wish I could say what you want to hear," Clarke says, some time later. There is a _ping_ when Clarke tosses the cup and it bounces off the Ark. It falls before her feet but she doesn't bother picking it up."I wish I could say that it was worth it and they didn't die in vain but - I shouldn't have trusted her. They're all dead and it's my fault. I should have just opened that damn door and let them all die. Or I could have let Anya jump by herself and gotten them out one by one instead. I - "

"Hey," Octavia interrupts, knocking her shoulder against Clarke's gently. It is so sweet and comforting that Clarke thinks she wants to cry. "You did the best that you could."

Clarke remember the words venomously spit back before Cage killed everyone. Octavia looks apologetic and grabs her hand softly. "You did," she says, insistent.

"Yeah," Clarke says and pulls from Octavia's touch.

The lie sticks in her throat.

 

 

This is how it ended:

Clarke shouted while her people bled out on a metal table. Clarke cried when her mother died from shock. Clarke turned to stone and put a bullet in Dante Wallace's head.

Lexa would be proud.

 

 

 _Please! Please please stop, I'll do anything! Please!_ _God please please_ -

Clarke drinks until she can scream along.

 

 

Lexa still watches.

Clarke learns this the hard way after Bellamy finds a grounder camped in the trees outside the fence. He is bloody and broken by the time Clarke returns him, a message that she wishes Lexa would heed.

She isn't surprised when two more follow in his place.

It takes three mangled men before Lexa comes herself.

 

 

"Clarke," Lexa nods, surrounded by guards and horses. Her field is still flattened around them and her face is streaked with black paint, the same as Clarke remembers.

Clarke feels the sound vibrate along her skull, terrible and biting. She takes a step towards Lexa, ignoring Octavia's motions for her to stop, then another. Lexa does not waver as Clarke comes to stand before her.

Jus drein jus daun - her hand finds the cold of her gun. Lexa's eyes widen slightly in surprise.

Clarke presses the bite of metal into Lexa's jaw sharply, her free hand finding the back of Lexa's skull and pulling down until Lexa is hunched over. There is a shout from Lexa's guards and the shuffling of guns being raised at Clarke's back. Lexa looks away for a moment, eying the grounders and their blades.

"Nou," Lexa barks, halting her warriors. Their weapons fall back to their sides even as they shift uneasily. Her eyes flicker to the gun for a moment before returning Clarke's hard gaze. "Are you going to kill me, Clarke?" she asks slowly.

Clarke swallows and thumbs the safety. "I should," she says, then adds, "I could."

Lexa studies the steel in Clarke's eyes and the furrow in her brow. She looks sad, murmuring, "I don't doubt that."

The gun presses harder into the soft of Lexa's flesh and Clarke wants to look away. "Why are you here, Lexa?" she asks.

"I am here to help with the rebuilding of Tondc," Lexa answers.

"I said why are you _here_?"

The muzzle of Clarke's gun slips down Lexa's chin, digging into Lexa's throat painfully. "I thought we should speak."

"You thought wrong," Clarke says, her words biting. Lexa's right eye twitches barely before Clarke feels something dig into her side sharply. She glances down to Lexa's knife tucked carefully in her hand and a slice cut from her shirt. She looks back up to see Lexa staring determinately.

Clarke thinks in another life she would smile, impressed.

"Why do you keep sending people?" she asks, releasing Lexa and letting her gun fall back to her waist.

"I - " Lexa pauses, licking her lips slowly. "The deal included clear borders. I send men to ensure the Mountain Men do not breach the arrangement."

"By our camp?"

"You are still on my ground, Clarke," Lexa answers. "There are those who do not wish that was the case."

Clarke grimaces. "Fuck you, Lexa."

Lexa looks perplexed for a moment. She straightens, sheathing her knife once more. "You have nothing to fear from me, Clarke. I have made sure none will attack you. Our alliance is still in place, if you choose it."

"I don't want anything from you," Clarke says. Her bones feel heavy, stuffed full of sorrow. Lexa blinks at her and opens her mouth, likely to give Clarke another unwanted lesson on leadership. Clarke's fingers twitch at the trigger of her pistol and Lexa's eyes flicker to the action. She closes her mouth in a thin line and clenches a hand around the hilt of her sword.

The exchange goes unnoticed by most.

Lexa finally nods tersely, says, "I understand. If you change your mind I will be in Tondc."

Clarke hates that her stomach drops when Lexa turns away. _May we meet again_ , she doesn't say, but it whispers between.

 

 

Monty drags her to the woods. He sits with her in the quiet, hands cracking open the nuts they have gathered and gently guiding her shaking fingers across paper. He doesn't say much, only helps her with a cup of purple paint made from the mutated apocynaceae that line the forest floor. It reminds her of their first hike long, long ago.

Clarke's hand wobbles, leaving a large streak of color. Monty plucks a flower from the ground and slowly pulls off its petals until only a bare stem is left. He twirls it between his fingers and squints at Clarke's messy drawing.

"You did a good job taking care of us," he tells her quietly. Clarke's shoulders tremble dangerously and he presses a warm palm to them, offering his reassuring care.

Clarke cries for the first time in weeks.

 

 

How many people has she killed? Clarke lost track around six hundred.

 

 

She has a dream.

Lexa pulls her to the water and kisses her, slow and soft.

 _In another life._ Lexa slits her throat so gently.

 

 

Clarke steals a canteen full of Monty's moonshine and tucks herself in the corners of the Ark, letting it cool her as she stares out into Lexa's field. She drinks once for Lexa's betrayal, twice for Dante Wallace and his brains splattered on her shoes. She drinks until she doesn't care about the screams running around in her head.

Octavia finds her when the alcohol sits warm and heavy in Clarke's gut. She doesn't say much, settling beside Clarke and taking her own sips of drink. Clarke is glad, watching the wind blow patches of weeds.

"He was my people too," she confesses, a whisper into the night air. Octavia twists a blade of grass between her fingers and grunts questioningly. "I let her take Lincoln. I'm sorry."

Octavia stills, the bits of earth falling from her hands. "I should have fought for him," Clarke says. Her eyes are pressed closed, fighting an onslaught of tears. "I should have fought for you and not let her take everything."

"She took from you too," Octavia says, quietly. She swallows a swig of moonshine before twisting the cap on tight. "I'm sorry it took me so long to figure that out. Monty had to yell at me and Bellamy wouldn't stop giving me his annoying disappointed face."

Clarke smiles a little, settling her head in the crook of Octavia's neck. She doesn't want to think about how many dead people it took for Octavia to forgive her; doesn't want to think about how many it will take before the Ark strings up for her crimes. She doesn't want to think about how she would give herself over gladly.

Maybe it would at least quiet the dead rattling around in her skull.

"Did you love her?" Octavia asks when the silence presses heavy between them, her voice hesitant. Clarke feels her body tense, her heart knocking in her ribcage.

She breathes shakily and tries not to imagine Lexa's bloody face as she left everyone to die. "I think I could have," Clarke says, a shiver running across her frame.

Octavia nods slowly. Her head thumps against the metal of the Ark and she huffs humorlessly, "Lexa's a bitch."

Clarke can't help the tiny helpless snort that escapes her. Octavia smiles ruefully.

The dead laugh in the space between.

 

 

One hundred became four, four broken twisted remains. Clarke can't get anyone out of her head.

 

 

Clarke has a dream, she has -

It takes three days to reach Tondc.

 

 

This is how it ended:

Clarke put a bullet in Dante's head when she should have put it in her own.

She won't make the same mistake twice.

 

 

She sits on Lexa's bed for hours. She didn't bother telling anyone she was leaving, packing her stash of nuts and berries, two extra clips of ammo, and the half-empty bottle of moonshine. Clarke thinks she should regret the action when grounders shout outside Lexa's tent but she can't bring herself to care anymore.

Her hands pull apart her gun on the soft of furs, dirt clumped under her fingernails. They are steady and strong when she wipes oil from the muzzle and chamber of her firearm. It is a tired practice that Clarke performs as she thinks of the girl in her dreams.

 _You were born for this, same as me_. Blood fills Clarke until she can't breathe.

"Clarke," Lexa says her name sharply, tearing Clarke's gaze from where the pistol lies in pieces. "What are you - "

Clarke's jaw twitches and she stands abruptly, interrupting, "I trusted you."

Lexa schools her startled features and takes a step further into the tent. "I never said you should," she says. She deposits a handful of scrolls onto the table that houses a map of the surrounding area. She doesn't look up as she continues, "I made a choice for my people. You would do the same."

"I wouldn't," Clarke snaps, her hands fists at her thighs. "I'd never condemn your people to die like mine did."

"Clarke we both know that is a lie."

"Do you know how Cage killed them? They ripped the marrow out of them Lexa. They didn't give any - I had to listen to their screams. I had to listen to my friends, my _mother_ \- " Clarke takes a heavy step back, sinking down on the edge Lexa's bed as she tries breathe through the words, "I had to listen to them die, Lexa. I had to stand there and - I could only listen."

"I'm sorry," Lexa says, quietly.

Clarke looks up slowly, her shoulders hunched. "No you're not."

"I am." Lexa shakes her head. She takes a step towards Clarke, her arm outstretched in a sign of peace. "But I had to think of my people, Clarke. You know that."

"What about _my_ people?"

Lexa's face is steel when she says, "They were a necessary sacrifice."

Clarke feels her mouth drop open as she stares at Lexa incredulously. "A necessary sacrifice?" she asks, slowly. "Tell that to all the parents of the people you left to die. Tell that to my mother. Do you even understand what you did Lexa? Do you realize you let them slaughter us all?"

"Of course I do," Lexa says. Her jaw clenches. The words nip at Clarke's chest, making her feel like Lexa has split her open and ripped out her lungs. Clarke's hands fall limp to her sides. "But I stand by my choice, even now. I will carry the burden of their deaths if it means lasting peace for my people."

Clarke can feel her pulse pounding in her palms when she tries to swallow thickly. "What about me?" she asks, her voice sounding small to even her own ears. "Did you think of me as a necessary sacrifice?"

Lexa stiffens, her eyes fluttering dangerously. "Yes," she admits after a moment, "I - it was not an easy decision, Clarke."

She falls quiet, letting Lexa's words burn on her skin. Is this what they amount to? Decisions? Clarke remembers all the people her decisions have killed. She doesn't think she can begin to count how many Lexa's has.

"You don't deserve to decide who lives and dies," Clarke says. "You can't be the judge, jury, and executioner."

If Lexa does not understand the idiom she does not show it. Her gaze skitters past Clarke's face. "If I don't, who does?"

"No one."

"That is not the nature of things," Lexa says. She gently sits beside Clarke, her shoulders sagging when Clarke does not turn away. "I know you are not naive enough to believe what you are saying."

"What if I am?" Clarke counters. She looks down and scrubs at the dirt caked in the crevices of her palms.

Lexa's hand finds the hard of her knee. "I know you, Clarke," she says, softly. "You are letting the Sky People's deaths cloud your judgement."

"They weren't the Sky People, they were _my_ people. They were kids, Lexa."

"No one is a child on the ground." Clarke looks up, studying Lexa's earnest gaze. She can't think of how long it took for Lexa to learn the lesson.

"You really believe that, don't you?" Clarke asks, pausing before Lexa. "At least that's what they've drilled into your head."

Lexa looks down, studying the frayed edges of blankets and her jaw twitches. She meets Clarke's eyes slowly before her head bobs, a small nod. Clarke's chest aches.

The ground has swallowed far too many dead kids.

Clarke's fingers find the hallow of her neck and pulls. Lexa does not fight, sighing into Clarke's mouth and tangling her hands in blonde hair. It tastes like yesterday, Clarke thinks, and all the dead that still play around in her brain. She wonders if Lexa feels the same.

 

 

Lexa comes above her with a cry. She is lovely, stripped down to the sad girl that Clarke wishes she knew. Clarke tears at her back and wonders how hard she would have to scratch to pull at the marrow filling Lexa's bones. She squeezes her eyes shut when Lexa kisses the corner of her mouth shakily and tries not to imagine Lexa screaming out on that metal table.

 _You are just like me_ , the image of Lexa hisses behind Clarke's eyelids, the poison sinking and settling in Clarke's brain. She is terrified of what that means.

Clarke curls a hand around Lexa's hip and whispers back, _maybe, maybe_.

 

 

Clarke has a dream.

 _Jus drein jus daun_.

Clarke is hungry.

 

 

 _May we meet again_ , she tells the sky. She can't remember the rest of the prayer anymore.

 

 

Lexa does not fight when Clarke pulls her to the bed of the river, does not strain against the hands that hold her to the dark warm rocks. She breathes Clarke's name once when Clarke runs her fingers along the intricacies of Lexa's braids. Lexa is quiet and gentle, letting Clarke press her mouth to the splotches of red hidden by dark paint.

Lexa is beautiful. Clarke feels her breath catch in her throat.

In another life she would love Lexa so dearly.

Lexa looks at her through tangled lashes, nods slowly. Clarke swallows.

She presses the cold of metal to the base of Lexa's skull, a kiss that Clarke gives delicately. Her hands are steady and her eyes are full. "In another life," she whispers, "may we meet again."

It is a promise.

Lexa exhales shakily. "Jus drein jus daun. If I was to be weak for anyone, I am glad it was you Clarke kom Skaikru."

Her hand finds Clarke's hip and she squeezes.

 

 

This is how it ended:

Dante Wallace's head exploded from the force of Clarke's bullet. He stained the concrete and splashed Clarke's shoes red. Clarke put a bullet in Dante's head and might as well have put it in her own.

This is how it ends, this is how. Lexa cracks her open and pulls the metal out herself.

Clarke doesn't know how she is supposed to go on.

 

 

This is not a fairytale.

No one saves them.

 

 


End file.
